Saturday, March 21, 2009

I took the black cashmere Ralph Lauren sweater off the pretty paisley cushioned hanger it has sat on for the last 3 years. I carefully cleaned the dust off the shoulders. Admired the neck line, the way it wrapped inside itself, and the lovely cable knit. It doesn't fit me any more, this beautiful sweater I bought in Atlantic City while on a weekend trip to see my friend Amy...I sat and remembered for a moment, smiled at the way it looked on me the last time i wore it, the plunging neck line, the dark blue jeans and the knee high leather boots. Damn I was a sight to see.I'm pretty sure the arresting officer didn't take the time to appreciate the neckline on me, neither did the police woman he called to search me, though she was surprised to find I wasn't wearing a bra or panties that night. The handcuffs cut off the circulation to my hands, and pulled on the cuffs of the sleeves whenever I tried to move.That night, it didn't keep me warm, but it soaked up my tears while I attempted to sleep in my cold, dirty, stagnant cell, under a paper blanket. I was aware of how the cashmere felt on my skin more than ever before. So soft, whisper like. I blame my awareness on the metal bench pressing my left shoulder closer into me, the metal bench that bruised my hips from the pressure of my bones crushing into my skin.In the morning, I don't think the pretty young thing across the holding cell noticed the fine knitting that looped around the neckline, she was too busy sweating, shaking, and detoxing from Oxycontin. The chatter of baby daddies, drug possession, drug dealing was more than I could handle.The other girls asked for my milk and the bologna sandwich that I could not bring myself to eat. Another asked if she could braid my chestnut hair, I nodded. I looked down at the bruises on my wrists from the handcuffs, pushed on them aware how any pressure now brought numbness to my fingers. I stared out through the cell bars at the passing deputy sheriffs and their prisoners...I thought how my eyes must look raccoon-like from my tears and my mascara, I was sure the mixture had run down my cheeks leaving black streaks on my pale skin. I watched as women hovered over the community toilet, urinating all over it. Dirt, filth, just brought more tears.My beautiful black Ralph Lauren cashmere sweater was all I had that made me feel human, it was all I had to remind me I was still Amy under those conditions.I held the sweater up to my cheek, closed my eyes and breathed deeply, so thankful that I no longer needed the reminder of that night hanging in my closet. I folded the beautiful sweater, and hid it away....

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

I hear his voice, "She said it's cold outside and she hands me my raincoat...she's always worried about things like that...She says it's all gonna end, and it might as well be my fault"

...and I'm back in time.

I can see your eyes. I can feel "us" washing over me again. The need for your kisses comes back like the need for the air that I breathe.

Perfect love.

Years have passed now. Yet, some nights, you visit me in my dreams. Your familiar warm smile, I love the way your eyes dance all over my face. Morning. I open my eyes, and move not a muscle. Never ready to let the feeling go. Never ready to let you go. I want to feel you just a moment more, but it's gone. You're gone.

September 11th took so much away from me. This war took so much away from me.

The long nights, in an empty bed waiting for your calls at 3 am, a world away.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Inside it feels like there's a Scream that is in terrible need of coming out.Perhaps it's about the manicure that I completely fuckered up when I got all excited that my Peter Rabbit music box was here.(Shut it people, I'm reliving my childhood)Doesn't everyone use an 8" carving knife to open a 5x5x5 inch box? It should have worked perfectly, only there was so much damn packing tape and bubble wrap. The knife slipped out of my skilled shakey hands and took a chunk out of the new velvety chocolate polish. Special.Or maybe the manifesting scream has something to do with my mother standing me up on Saturday night for a movie date. She says she sent a text message. For the love of God Susan, a phone call is nice! The last thought is, it may have something to do with the irritating phone calls I'm getting over the last couple of weeks.I feel like Dr Ruth and Dear Abby wrapped up into one for my ex-boyfriends.When did this become kosher? Asking an ex for advice on current dating situations?Most of these men, I'd like to stick a dull knife into their gut and slowly disembowel them.*takes a moment and daydreams*I don't keep in touch with a man after I break up with him, or after he breaks up with me. It has to be ripped off like a band aid. No more access to my Myspace, Facebook, or email. It may sound harsh, but it's the only way that works for me. The one thing I have yet to do is change my phone number, and that option is getting more and more appealing.I listen to this bullshit and I'm amazed. I'd like to share their troubles, cause that's the kind of "friend" I am.Gentlemen, kindly take note:

I don't want to hear about the Italian woman you are currently fucking, where you took her to dinner, or how she doesn't like it from behind.

This will never work, you love this dominating position. Add a car into the mix and her bent over the back seat...forget it. All you care about is sex any way. Move on.

I don't want to hear about the 21 year old Russian orphan, with a cocaine problem that's not really a problem, living with another man driving his car, and banging you out in her free time.

Are you serious? You need to question this relationship? Just take yourself out of the dating pool if you find this acceptable.

The Greek girl you've spent the last 3 years breaking up and getting back together with, now you find the break-ups are weekly and you're the one doing it.

It's not going to work. You are a jack ass for trying the same shit and expecting different responses. Actually, keep trying. You deserve this kind of misery for your stupidity.

The Dominican woman, with her beautiful body, that may or may not be looking for a green card, says you have a big cock and you make her cum better than any other man.

First of all, she lied, your cock isn't that big, remember that I've seen it...and you're not that great a lover. You mentioned Green Card....And no, having a man that can make you cum does not equal love for a woman. Idiot.

I now see why I no longer date any of you. Not that I needed further clarification, but it helps and amuses me.About that Scream-It's most definitely about the fuckered up manicure. $36.00 down the toilet!